Out of Tune
Chapter eleven
Teresa settled in the plush armchair of a back row in the theater, smiling as the orchestra retuned its instruments before the rehearsal would resume again in full.
The dancers had been at it for hours, and they’d dispersed for a break quickly, before the demanding directora could change her mind on the fifteen minutes she’d gifted them.
They disappeared into the wings, much like how Teresa was currently hiding from her own exacting demands of sitting around and reading.
She was tired of learning of the world through pages only.
And there was something about the ballet, about the beautiful wintry costumes of Elevsk, that made her feel like she was in a whole new world.
That maybe, one day, she could travel beyond the borders of their little island.
Now the orchestra was retuning, and the soft timbre of the flutes against the deep rumble of the trombones made her smile as they all hit the same note.
Those who were sharp and those who were flat adjusted, and when the conductor bid them play again, the note rang out in perfect unison.
All the instruments, pieces of one body, coming together to produce something beautiful.
And yet, Teresa often felt like there was always some part of her that was out of tune, but never noticed by those with the untrained ear, like Mamá and Yair.
And even Cerise, the one person she might consider to be a friend, couldn’t hear her on the days when her world was only ever so slightly sharp.
Even now, though she enjoyed the music, she knew she couldn’t stay too long.
With the passing of the storm, her flare-up had lessened, and she needed to conserve her energy until her birthday.
Then, since she’d be of age, she could finally have her own adventure instead of only reading about the world.
“Directora,” said a voice, “should I step in as Maria now?” One of the ballerinas playing a cardinal stepped forward, drawing a few gazes her way.
The director of the ballet company glanced around the stage. “Where is Lorelle?” she snapped.
“We can’t find her,” said a stagehand.
“She’s feeling sick,” answered a dancer from the audience many rows ahead of Teresa. “Give her time to recover. She must be with the royal physician. If you need a stand-in, maybe I can—”
“No, Isabel,” the director said sharply. “Recover. Vanesa,” she said, turning back to the girl dressed in red, “get the costume.”
A few minutes later, Vanesa emerged in the silk costume of Maria. The practice went on, this time with a dancer in place as Maria, instead of walking through the steps without the main dancer on stage, as they had been practicing for the last day and a half.
Teresa was so engrossed in watching the stage that she didn’t notice a figure slip into the seat beside her.
“Nadie sabía dónde estabas,” said her brother, whispering so as not to be heard over the music.
She shot him a sideways look, smiling. “But you knew where I was.”
Yair grinned back at her. “I heard the music and made an educated guess.”
She raised a brow. “Sure you won’t go back and tell Mamá y Papá?”
He shook his head and passed her a bag of plantain chips. “I’m here for the show.”
She grinned and popped some chips in her mouth, settling back into her seat and leaning her head against Yair’s shoulder.
It was encouraging how sometimes he knew her so well, how she would listen to music to calm her nerves and steady herself.
Papá had commissioned her a special music box, where a dancer twirled with the tinkling music.
She’d often found herself singing along, like how she hummed with the melody of the music, and wishing that she could be as strong as Maria and the wooden soldier, who defended the kingdom from the invasion.
At this point, she would take her pain, her bad days, and her good days, if she could just see how God would use her.
If He could only give her a purpose beyond that which Mamá had limited her to.
“?Estás dormida?” Yair whispered, shrugging his shoulder and moving her head with the motion.
She let out a hum. “No, I’m not sleeping.”
“Tired?”
She sat upright now and shook her head, studying him closely.
There was something in his tone, and now the glint in his eye reminded her of when they used to sneak down to the kitchens to steal some quesitos, a flaky pastry with sweet cream cheese folded inside.
She narrowed her eyes, though she couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips.
“What are you thinking in that head of yours, hermano?”
He stood, extending an elbow to her as if he were escorting another noble across the courtyard. She laughed and took his arm. “Where are we going?”
He winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
He led her up the darkened aisle, to the back of the theater, before he released her and folded at the hip into an exaggerated bow. “Would you care for a dance?” he asked, glancing up at her.
She laughed. “I think the last time we did this, I stood on your toes.”
“I’m strong enough if you still want to,” he said, laughing. She took his hand, and he swept her into a dance position, her hand on his shoulder and his supporting arm at her waist.
“I remember you being much taller then,” she quipped back as he led her through the first box step of the waltz.
He signaled for a spin, and her dress swirled around her. Her leg caught slightly against the bunching fabric, but she corrected her wobble before coming back from the spin.
The corner of his eyes crinkled in worry. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said sharply. “I just tripped over my dress.”
But though the dance continued, he was much more careful with her, so slow that they even got behind in the music. But that was just as well, as the director had stopped the ballet to remind one of the ballerinas about memorizing the choreography.
He led her through another spin, but he moved too slow, and she tripped over his foot. Her hands hit the carpeted floor, and fire seared across her palms as pain shot up her arms. Something twisted in her shoulder, and a cry escaped her lips.
Yair’s hand touched her back and she flinched away, hissing air between her teeth. “Don’t. Touch. Me,” she said with effort.
Footsteps rumbled as someone came up the aisle, and the gasps of those on stage reached her ears. Her face burned, but more than that, so did her frustration.
“You didn’t spin me right, Yair,” she said. “You were too slow. You don’t need to treat me like I’m fragile. I’m fine—”
Hands gripped her, bringing her to her feet, and stars danced before her eyes at the pain that lanced through her. When she could blink away the stars, she found Mamá’s face in front of her own, and Mamá’s hands wrapped around her shoulders.
“Be gentle, Rosario,” said a deep voice. Papá.
He knelt before her. “Where does it hurt, mija?”
“Shoulder,” she squeezed out. “It’s only sprained—”
“Where? Let me see.” Mamá reached for her again, but when her hand wrapped around Teresa’s elbow, pain seared and Teresa twisted back out of her grip.
“Get the physician,” said Papá to Yair. Though his voice was firm, Teresa heard the fear in his voice. “I’ll take her to her room.”
“And I’ll speak with Cerise,” said Mamá indignantly, though Teresa could see the concern shining in her tearful eyes.
“It’s not her fault,” Teresa ground out. But if Mamá heard her, she was gone out of the theater. “Papá, it’s just a sprain,” she repeated.
He nodded in response, but his lips pursed, as if he wasn’t sure whether to take her at her word. But she met his gaze unflinchingly. She needed him, of all people, to believe.
Teresa risked a glance over her shoulder, seeing how the director of the ballet had already herded the dancers back to their positions and started the music. If the dancers fell, they could pick themselves back up again and keep going. Or if an instrument broke, at least it could be repaired.
But Teresa didn’t have that same luxury, sequestered away in her room to await the endless prodding of a physician and the silent answer to her desperate prayers.